There were times she sat and wondered if she should apologize for being insane. She'd chip the paint with just the tip of her finger and ponder it. And then she'd come to the conclusion, no - they loved her for it. It made no difference whether she only claimed to have been down that rabbit hole or had actually been. They cared nothing for the truth of who she was. She could dance with angels o...r fight demons in the darkest hours of the night - how she hated it when the demons shook her bed. But it really didn't matter. Insane, sane, normal, or mad as a hatter tripping on acid - it really didn't matter. She was beautiful. And it was her beauty that drew them. But what she knew, that they never knew, was it wasn't just her beauty. It was the fact she was insane. They loved her for it. So she continued to sit and ponder her insanity, relishing the fact it gave her beauty, and never once tried to unbuckle the jacket. For she had nothing to apologize for.